Sick and Sicker
by theconsultingtardisbananaangel
Summary: Dean is left to play Doctor Sexy, M.D., when he's stuck with one sick, moosely brother and one beat-up, loopy angel to take care of. But Sam is getting worse and Cas isn't making any sense about what happened to him. Plus, Dean swears he can hear them talking about him when he's not in there...
1. Holy roadkill, Batman!

**Author's note: This story started as a little one-shot I wrote to celebrate my one year anniversary of FFNet membership on April 30th**. **I contracted influenza, however, and that meant missing school, which meant my laptop was taken away for much of this week. Then, there was last Wednesday's episode, which ended with Dean almost running over Cas. In my story, I had originally had him out of juice saving Dean from exsanguination, but then I saw the episode and voila. Happy one year of fanfiction to me~!**

* * *

"Cas? You okay? Talk to me, Cas." Dean clutched Cas on the cold pavement, careful not to jostle him too badly for fear of injuring him.

"Is this what it's like to be human?" Cas gazed up at Dean, glassy-eyed and weary.

"What are you talking about, man?" Dean was unsure whether to cry from relief or slap Cas until he started making sense. Sam leaned against the Impala, feeling as if he'd be intruding if he came closer.

"Help me, Dean. I got shot." Cas is giggling, eyes glassy and feverish. "Got a melted knife bullet to the stomach were I hid the Word," he babbles.

"Um, Dean? I hate to, uh, interrupt, but, uh, there's a car coming." Sam finally wandered closer to his friend and his brother.

"Let's get you home, Cas."

"He almost got her with a knife bullet. I hate him but he hates her and she flew away," Cas was in hysterics. "At a restaurant I got a lot of coffee and they burned out their eyes. Told me to stop." Dean dragged him to the car, motioning for Sam to sit in the back with Cas, to keep him upright.

"Dude, I think he's in shock or something," Sam said, eyebrows knit together.

"Can angels, like, do that?"

"I dunno, but you almost turned him into holy roadkill."

"I got a melted knife bullet." Cas grinned. Blood was flowing from his nose now. He held something out for Sam to see.

"Uh, that's nice, Cas, but you need to get in the car." Dean all but shoved him into the backseat and Sam fumbled with the seat belt.

"Cas, what happened?" Sam asked as Dean turned the key in the ignition. The Impala rumbled to life and they were back on their way.

"I sat at a lot of those turducken places." Cas clutched his bloodied torso in one hand and opened his button-down with the other, trying to assess the damage.

"Turducken?" Dean repeated incredulously.

"You mean Biggerson's?" Sam asked.

"Yes. They've got thousands and Naomi can't tell what city I sat at," the angel slurred, poking at his open wound. Sam slapped his hands away, inspecting the damage.

"You look like a surgical dummy," the younger Winchester said.

"And then what, Cas?"

"They bled everyone's eyes and the coffee lady told me to stop so they snapped her neck. She was nice. I told her about the goats."

"The goats?" Dean sighed. "Cas, are you cuckoo for cocoa puffs again?"

"No, they found coffee beans, not 'cocoa puffs', Dean," he said, giggling. Sam bunched up the bloodied remnants of Cas's shirt and pressed it to his side.

"Apply pressure to that, Cas. Keep talking."

"So then Naomi was talking about Pesach and she wanted my tablet. But I didn't give it to her."

"Pay-sack?" Dean enunciated.

"Passover," supplied Sam. "When all of the Jewish families in Egypt put lamb's blood over their doors so that the angel of death would move on to the next house in their quest for firstborns."

"Were you there?" Dean asked, a little awed.

"I don't know. Naomi scrambled things up a lot."

"Okay, so you talked about killing Egyptian kids. Then what?" Dean asked impatiently.

"I wouldn't let her get the tablet."

"And she shot you?"

"No. Crowley showed up and shot her friends with his knife gun."

"Knife gun?" Sam repeated.

"He turned a knife into bullets. He shot me."

"Wait. Crowley was there? And he shot you?" Dean shook his head.

"He almost got her, Dean. So close," Cas wheezed.

"Dean, maybe we should let him rest," Sam ventured.

"Cas, are you gonna live for the next hour or so?"

"Yeah. I got the bullet out. I'll be fine."

* * *

Five minutes later Cas was hunched against the window, snoring lightly. Sam was nodding off, exhaustion setting in. Dean waited until they were both asleep to take a good look in the backseat. He watched his brother and his best friend slumber for a few minutes, silently thanking whatever god was listening that they were both still alive and breathing and that they were all together.

For now, at least.


	2. Free will to sick bay, stat!

**All right, squiddos, here it is~! The rating has increased due to swearing. This chapter includes somewhat graphic descriptions of wounded flesh, so if that's troublesome, maybe skip the latter portion of said chapter. There's more coming very soon! And to those of you who follow me for ****_Until The End Of Time, _****that's got an update soon, not to worry. Now, onward!**

* * *

"Alright pretty princesses, wake up," Dean said gruffly. He was sleepier than he would care to admit. They hadn't actually slept since leaving the bunker on their quest for Metatron. His neck was sore and the sunrise made his eyes sting and his head hurt. But he needed to get his brothers into bed.

_Brother, singular, _he reminded himself. _Cas ain't your brother_, said the voice of reason in his head.

_He's more_, another, more timid voice pointed out.

"Dean?" Sam grunted, stirring.

"No, it's the Easter bunny," he grumbled. "Can you walk?"

"Yes," his brother huffed. He slid the blanket that he'd somehow managed to usurp from Cas onto the floor of the Impala and maneuvered to the side of the seat, bracing himself. With an almighty heave, he was miraculously on his feet somehow. But the blood fled from his brain and he was dizzy, so dizzy, and _when did the floor get next to my face?_

"Uh, I think we'd best stick to the training wheels for now." Dean was at his brother's side as soon as he saw him begin to collapse. A vein in Sam's head throbbed angrily, accented against his red face. He ignored the way his muscles cried out in fatigue and helped the two-hundred-plus pounds of Sam to their feet. Swaying, Sam fell back against the Impala with a grunt. Dean lifted his brother's arm and placed it around his own shoulder, and wrapped an arm around Sam's waist.

"Buy me... dinner first," Sam mumbled.

"Shut up, Fainting Beauty," Dean grunted back.

Slowly, they began to walk towards the bunker. Well, Dean walked and Sam shuffled and Dean dragged and then after what felt like years they were at the door.

"Sam? Wait here, okay?" Dean shoved his weakling of a brother into a chair.

"'M not... goin' any... where, Dean."

* * *

"Okay, Sammy, look what I got!" Dean returned a few moments later, his voice dragging Sam out of his fevered stupor and beating his brain into the pavement.

"Be... q... w... eye... ette, Dee... nuh," he managed. "Hur... ts... my... hehh... d."

"Wheelchair," Dean said simply, and once again it was Dean wrestling with his all-but-unconscious brother. Sam couldn't get his limbs to move correctly, not that he really wanted to, and he managed to elbow Dean in the nose.

"Suhhhh...rrr..."

"Shut up, dude," Dean mumbled. He had Sam half in the wheelchair, half leaning on him. He slid his brother off of him and he collapsed in the wheelchair, breathing heavily. Triumphantly, he stepped back to view his handiwork. Sam was slumped over to the side, looking at least forty-five although he was barely more than thirty. He opened his eyes to survey the scene.

"Deeee...n. St...air...s."

It was the most trying event of Dean's horror-filled life not to fall on the floor crying in frustration.

* * *

Finally, finally, when Dean had gotten Sam into the sick ward (the bunker had a sick ward!) and into bed, he remembered Cas alone in the Impala.

"Well, at least Cas ain't a fuckin' moose," he grunted to himself. It was his turn to sway a bit as he headed outside once more to collect his second, albiet lighter, charge. Cas was still slumped against the window. He hadn't moved an inch. Dean tapped on the glass lightly, feeling like a kid at the zoo knowing that he wasn't supposed to bother the animals in the tanks.

Castiel's head shot up and he looked around, frenzied. Suddenly, he disappeared, and Dean felt a pair of hands around his throat.

"Don't touch me," Cas growled from behind him. He squeezed Dean's throat and white spots blurred the hunter's gaze.

"Sme, Cas," he whimpered. The hands were gone and he collapsed against the car, gasping for air. "'S me. Cas, it's only me. It's only me," he repeated.

"Oh, holy Father, Dean, I'm so sorry," Cas said weakly. Dean stood up again, brushing off the angel's apologies.

"'S okay, man. Just wait 'til you have all your juice back before you kill me. Then you can heal me up good as new." Somehow, in Dean's sleep deprived brain, this was comedy gold, and he began to laugh, hard.

A strangled cry from Cas made him snap out of it.

"Dean, my wound," Cas said. He grabbed his side and his eyes rolled back in his head as fresh waves of pain rolled over him. "I- I flew, an- and the effort-"

"Cas?" Dean held the angel so he wouldn't lose his balance and fall. He didn't respond. "Cas, you still alive, man?"

Still no response.

Dean felt for a pulse. It was there. Faint, almost invisible, but there. Dean ached with relief and allowed himself a moment of breathing in his scent before leaning down and picking him up. He was really heavy, but Dean was strong. The simple fact that Cas was still breathing fueled him, and it was too short a walk to the sick ward (sick ward!). He laid Cas gently on the bed next to Sam's.

"Dean?" Cas breathed. Dean froze, his arms still wrapped around the angel's torso. Cas lifted his hand to touch Dean's face, gently. Then, he closed his eyes and fell into a restless sleep, panting shallowly.

"I'm here, Cas. I'm still here." Dean was filled with a surge of emotion beyond anything he'd ever felt. It was affection for the torn-up angel. It was mind-numbing relief for his hard-won safety. It was anger and hatred for whoever the hell Cas said had done this. It was longing for... something. It was the emotion that matched Castiel's scent and his voice and his eyes and Dean wrestled the urge to curl up next to him like a newborn puppy latches on to its litter-mates.

But he needed to examine Castiel's wound, and he needed to get some water into Sam. He cast one more glance at the slumbering duo and went into the kitchen.

* * *

Dean could have been a doctor in another life, easily. He'd picked up a lot of basic- and not-so-basic- medical skills on the road, and sometimes he wondered what would have happened had he grown up normal. Maybe, there could have been medical school...

_Stop it, Dean, focus._

He gingerly removed Castiel's clothing, not giving it a second thought, just knowing that he couldn't fully bandage it with clothes on. He pushed away the little voice that told him not to take of Cas's boxers. The gaping hole was too close to his waistband.

Cas whimpered slightly in his sleep as Dean peeled back his shirt. With the scab removed, new blood beaded to the surface of the wound. Dean let out a low whistle at the sight of it. There was a huge gash that reminded Dean of fresh fish at a market, gutted on the spot to be sold and eaten. A huge flap of skin was still attached to his side, hanging on by a couple of limp sinewy strings. Dean knew that it was too far gone for stitches. He wiped away the dried blood and bits of shirt fabric with a warm, damp cloth, squeezing Cas's hand as the angel hissed.

Inside of Cas's side, the organs were unharmed, thank God, and the muscles had mostly knit themselves back together. Dean cleaned the wound as much as possible before stepping back to assess and to plan his next move.

"Dean?" Cas didn't open his eyes, but Dean knew he wasn't just talking in his sleep.

"Cas? How are you feeling?"

"It hurts so- so much, Dean," he cried brokenly. "Please, it hurts. Make it stop." Cas squeezed Dean's hand as if it was the only thing left keeping him alive.

"I want to, baby, I really do. I want it all to go away." Dean felt himself begin to cry. He wanted to swap places with the angel, to be the one with a giant hole in his side. He couldn't shake the feeling that this was somehow his fault, that Cas had done this to himself for him, for Dean-

_Pull yourself together, Winchester_, he commanded.

"Please," the angel wailed.

_Give him an IV_, said yet another voice deep within his mind. _You passed the supply closet earlier. They've probably got enough painkillers for a small army._

"Cas, I need you to let go of my hand," he said.

"No. Please, Dean, no."

"You have to, sweetheart." Dean pried Cas's fingers off with difficulty. "I'm going to go find something that will make the pain go away."

Then, something inside of him took charge. The supply closet was huge, filled with every possible thing that could ever be needed for any ailment, from bone-cutting saws to be used in surgery to athlete's foot powder. Dean found an IV stand in the corner, and bags of drugs in a box near it. He found himself remembering which painkillers they'd used on him before, what had been given to Bobby and his own father as they'd lain in the hospital dying, lifetimes ago. He gathered the medicines and the stand, the needle and tube for his elbow, bandages to hold it in place. He placed it all beside Cas and went back to the closet for a scalpel and whatever those little scissors that they used to clip the flesh so that it wasn't in the way of the surgery. Finally, sutures and a hooked needle for giving stitches.

Time to sew.

* * *

**Okay, I know a lot of people were probably wondering why Dean knows so much about surgery and stuff, so before you start bitchin' about it, hear me out. I think it makes a lot of sense. Dean probably has a very good grasp of anatomy due to time spent ripping bodies in hell. He's spent a lot of his life around injuries, and he's no stranger to improvised surgeries. I think it's very reasonable to think that he's got at least a medic-level skill set. Hell, even I know how to do this stuff. And I don't hunt things that want to tear me apart... **

**So if you don't like, don't read.**

**And if you do like, then you're awesome. :)**


	3. Operation: Operation

**Okay, time for mildly graphic surgery. In serving an informal internship (say that 10 times fast!) at a rural veterinarian's, I performed surgery on a dog. It was probably illegal, but the vets were pretty chill about the whole thing and they watched me the whole time and told me what to do. I opened up the dog, removed its lady bits, and sewed it back up all the way. **

**Looking back on the experience, that was probably a really bad idea, letting an untrained fifteen-year-old operate on somebody's pet...**

**That is what NOT to do when acting like a responsible adult.**

**That being said, I think this is reasonably accurate, even though Dean is in ****_no way _****spaying Cas. **

* * *

Dean brushed Castiel's hair out of his face before steeling himself for the next bit.

"Give me your arm, Cas." Cas obeyed, placing his hand in Dean's. But Dean moved his away, grabbing the band that he needed to tie around the angel's forearm. He pushed away anything resembling emotion so that he could treat Cas to the best of his abilities, making him handle the angel a bit more roughly than necessary. He secured the tourniquet by Castiel's elbow, tightening it and tying so that the vein bulged. Cas looked at him, nervous.

"You... Dean," he mumbled incoherently.

"Cas. It's an IV. Intravenous. It'll help the pain, but I need to get a needle in you first. 'Kay?" Not waiting for a response, Dean opened the sterilized package. "On three. One-" He pushed the needle in.

"You said three," the angel slurred.

"I lied," he responded brusquely. He yanked off the tourniquet and watched the angel's hand return to normal color. Then, he grabbed a square of cotton bandage and placed it over the needle before securing it with medical tape. He attached the tube to the end before wrapping up Castiel's elbow completely so that there was no chance of him dislodging the IV. Finally, he stuck the other end of the tube into the sack of medicine and adjusted the drip. It was surprisingly easy, just a little knob that you turned and it dripped every ten seconds or so. Dean looked down at Cas, whose eyes were closed again. He looked very, vary pale, and the hunter immediately wondered if Cas knew Jimmy's blood type.

"Tha's weird, Dean," the angel mumbled. "There's ice stuff in my veins."

"Good. And I gave you some melatonin, so don't fight sleep. You aren't gonna want to be awake for this." Dean turned away. "I'll start in a bit, once you're under." He walked to the supply closet and took another IV pole over to Sam's bedside. In a box near the ones with painkillers and sleeping medications, there was one with essential vitamins and minerals. He mixed a cocktail for Sam, silently thankful that he wasn't awake to refuse it.

When he had set up Sam's drip, and changed his brother into pajamas for good measure, Cas had finally fallen asleep. The angel's side was still bleeding under the bandage. Dean adjusted himself so that he wasn't looking at Castiel's face, but solely at his injury. He started with the deepest layer of tissue, pulling aside the other various bits of human that were in his way and clamping them. He stitched them quickly and neatly, and moved on to the next layer. The stitches would dissolve naturally within the next few days, and the tissue would be mostly together by then. He noted an unmistakable bullet wound, sewed it up easily. He forgot who he was, who the man under his needle was, forgot the uncomfortable way he was crouched on the cold floor, forgot everything but the dripping noise and the flesh that he was sewing.

It was over remarkably soon, and Dean was left with a lot of pink and red and that ugly flap of skin. He took the scalpel and severed the last few bits of skin. Finally, it was over, and he covered the patch of raw flesh with gauze, completely wrapping Castiel's torso before stepping back to view his handiwork.

Castiel's breathing was less ragged, and he didn't look like he was in as much pain. His eyelashes fluttered and Dean let himself be proud of a job well done. Then, near the cluster of bandages, he caught sight of a trail of hair that reminded him with a jolt of Castiel's nakedness, forgotten in the improvisational surgery.

He was really well built, muscular but toned, small but not bony. Dean watched him sleep, unable to tear his eyes away from Cas. The angel coughed slightly and the spell was broken He wandered away to his own room, opening his drawers to rifle through the shopping bags he'd stored there. He had taken a day for clothes shopping shortly after discovering the bunker, excited to finally have more than just a duffle bag for room. He'd gone a little crazy, buying band tee shirts and lots of patterned boxers and just EVERYTHING. Most of it was unworn, and he was glad. Even though he'd just stripped Cas, sewn him up, and watched him sleep, naked, there was still something weird about giving the guy a pair of underwear.

Finally, he emerged from the room with a pair of plaid pajama pants, a Yellow Submarine tee shirt that Dean didn't actually remember buying or wanting to wear, and a pair of grey boxers with penguins on them.

Dean had always enjoyed wearing oddly-patterned boxers. Maybe it was a little streak of independence or rebellion left over from his teenage years. He liked the different patterns, and it was a source of relentless teasing from Dad when he'd been alive. But somehow penguins reminded Dean of Cas. They shared a sort of quirkiness and curiosity, a formality that melted into an adorably awkward silliness sometimes. Penguins are loyal and brave and stuff. Plus, they were both really, really, adorable.

Back in the sick ward, Sam was snoring softly. Dean hoped this was a good sign. Cas was curled up in a ball, facing the wall. Dean wanted to run his hands along the angel's spine, but he resisted and remembered his boundaries. He was still exhausted, and he couldn't dress Cas without at least a little help.

"Cas?" Dean put a hand tentatively on his shoulder. "Cas, I brought you some clothes."

"Dean?" Cas rolled over onto his back, careful not to upset the bandages. "Where am I?"

"You're safe."

Dean set down the clothes and ripped the tag off of the penguin boxers. He carefully slid Castiel's feet into the leg-holes and slowly edged them up his legs, stopping every few inches to adjust the angel's position so he could move the clothing between him and the bed. He let the boxers sit low around Castiel's waist, not wanting to put pressure on the bandages. As he finished, he realized that Cas was now half-hard under his boxers, and he looked away.

"Sorry," Cas mumbled. "I didn't mean to-"

"Don't talk, Cas," Dean soothed. "It's fine."

"It embarrasses you," the angel said.

"It's normal, Cas. It's all good. 'Fact, I'd be weirded out if you didn't... you know." Dean began to work on the pants. They were easier than the boxers by far, and he was done quickly. Looking at the shirt, he realized that there was no way to get it on over the IV without a ton of effort and he was just too tired.

"Stay?" Cas pleaded gently.

"Cas, I really..."

"Keep me warm," the angel continued, and Dean finally gave in. He curled up beside him, folding his body neatly into Castiel's. They fit together perfectly. Dean snaked one hand underneath the angel's chest, holding him close. Dean pulled a blanket over them and his other hand found Cas's, and their fingers laced together. Finally, his face buried in Castiel's neck, he slept, breathing in the comforting presence of his angel, happy to be alive, happy to finally, finally hold Cas at night as he dreamt. He didn't care that Sam might see them, didn't care that the angel was relatively new to emotions.

He had Cas, he was safe, and he was warm.

* * *

**Yes, 'dreamt' is a word.**


	4. Bittersweet Lullabye

Sam woke up covered in cold sweat. His whole body felt flushed and achy. It felt like his muscles had just been through a triathlon with absolutely no training. He pushed off the covers, waves of heat coursing through him, making him feel nauseous and dizzy. As he struggled to expose his skin to fresh air, he somehow managed to get even more tangled. Panting, he rested for a moment, gathering his last reserves of strength to free himself from the cotton torture devices.

His eyes slowly adjusted and he remembered where he was. He was in the bunker somewhere, but it wasn't his bedroom, it was... It was...

"Mmmmmgh," something whined and he flipped around suddenly, making his head spin and his temples throb. There were shapes in the dark... Well, one shape on a bed, but how did that shape have three arms?

"Mmmmmmh," the thing whined again. It sure sounded a lot like Castiel, Sam finally realized. Well, it made sense. If he wasn't in his room, Dean probably had put him in some sort of infirmary, and Cas was infirm too. Nothing malevolent here.

Cas kept whining, crying and moaning, mewing so pitifully that Sam wondered if he was perhaps taking social cues from a kitten.

Then, he heard someone shhing him.

Dean?

What was Dean doing in here?

"Cas?" Sam heard his older brother whisper softly. "Shh. It's okay. It's okay. I'm here, baby, I got you."

It broke his heart to hear the sadness and desperation in Dean's tone. Cas kept crying, and Dean's voice broke.

"Please, Cas. It's okay. Just sleep. I got you, I promise."

His struggle with the bedclothes forgotten, Sam listened in disbelief as Dean began to sing quietly. He couldn't tell what it was that Dean was singing, but it was familiar and soothing. Sam felt a memory stir faintly, back from days on the road, when his father was gone, and he had nightmares, and Dean calmed him down...

A bittersweet realization washed over him. The days where Dean sang lullabies were long since over, which made him want to curl up and cry. But seeing that Dean had someone else to take care of, Castiel, no less, made him feel warm and happy for his brother. He drifted off to sleep as his rough, masculine older brother sang, saccharine and sincere, to his angel and, unknowingly, to Sam.

* * *

When he awoke the next morning (or afternoon, or evening), Dean was gone, and Sam wondered whether he was ever there in the first place.


	5. On Target

Dean woke up a few hours after sunrise to find himself tangled up in Castiel's arms. The angel snored softly and Dean resisted the urge to bury his head in his angel's chest. But his stomach growled and there was no food in the bunker currently. If he was going to care for these two patients, he was going to need some sustenance. Besides, he had a killer craving for French toast. Gently, he loosened Castiel's tight grip around his body and padded quietly out of the room,hoping that he didn't wake Sammy. He wasn't sure if he wanted his brother to know that he had slept with Cas. Well, not slept with him slept with him, but actually slept...

Whatever.

He changed out of his rumpled clothing, and checking on Cas and Sam on more time, he headed out for some food. In the car, he found himself listening not to classic rock, but some alternative indie station which was playing a soft, quiet song with ethereal vocals and a soothing melody. Exactly the kind of stuff Dean Winchester didn't listen to. But he found that the quietness calmed him making him feel relaxed despite the constant worries that grappled for attention in his mind: Cas, Sam, Cas, trials, Cas, Sam, Crowley, Cas, Naomi, Sam, Cas.

After a long drive and a substantial dose of soft music later, Dean wandered the aisles of the local Target store. He quickly filled the little red basket with groceries and ditched it for a cart. He bought cereal, granola, various meat products, fruits and veggies for Sam, yogurt, milk, eggs, cinnamon, bread... Finally, he added a sack of green grapes to the veritable cornucopia and wandered towards the registers. But he had to pass through the home decor section, and was struck with the insatiable urge to pick up some scented candles. And some micro-fleece blankets, and some throw pillows, and a coffee mug with a moose on it...

Hey, it was the first time the guy had a true home. He was allowed to... home-ify it some, right? Plus, it wasn't like he didn't have enough fake credit cards...

* * *

Dean brought the groceries into the bunker first. He decided breakfast was the first priority, then he could decorate. He put away the perishables and pulled out a plate for Sam. He had absolutely no idea whether or not Cas was in any condition to eat, or what he would want, so he got together some fruit for Sam. Maybe if he kept it down he could have some French toast later. Dean made a smiley face with two strawberries for eyes, a slice of cantaloupe for a smile, and a handful of green grapes for a beard.

Walking down the hallway, he stopped short at the sound of voices. Cas and Sam seemed to both be awake. Dean almost dropped the plate when he heard Sam giggle.

"I know... Dean... Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania... Cheeseburgers... You," he heard Sam say. Well, he heard a lot more; but he couldn't make it out.

"I don't... He doesn't... Sam, you're wrong," Castiel's reply came. Dean felt offended that they were talking about them, and decided to withhold Sam's breakfast for a while.

* * *

**I know, I know, short chapters... But somehow my alerts aren't working and therefore I have to go check up on all of the fics I follow individually, and the tedium of visiting them each one by one is kind of melting me. And I have a mild version of yellow fever thanks to a live inoculation and I feel like crap but there were two short chapters in rapid succession so that counts for something right?**

**Anyways, I'm working hard at AP exams (the mental equivalent of getting shot in the chest and then completing a triathlon.)**

**Ugh, real life, Y U no go away?!**


	6. Food

**Now I must stumble awkwardly through the trials. But not to fear.**

* * *

"How you feelin', Cas?" Dean had a tray in his hands with two hamburgers and two bowls of yogurt. He was pointedly ignoring Sam, who was spouting something about a farting donkey in the Grand Canyon.

"My stitches are healing relatively well," Cas replied. "It's your brother I would be worrying about."

"Ain't nothing much I can do for him other than not videotaping his stupid antics," Dean said, although he was deeply worried about his brother.

"Is it true that you rode a donkey with a flatulence problem?" Cas asked with remarkable seriousness.

"Cas, we've never even_ been_ to the Grand Canyon." Dean sighed. "He's hallucinating or something."

"That is worrisome."

"Has he said anything at all that makes sense?" Dean asked.

"I do not know what you would consider sensical," Cas admitted.

"Anything helpful?"

"No, not really," Cas said.

"Great."

"I assume we are running low on food," Cas stated after a moment or two.

"Yeah." Dean looked down at the tray, remembering what he'd come in for. They had been in the bunker for three days, and the food was running low. Cas was healing, not nearly as fast as he would if he was at full power, but faster than a human. He was getting more and more restless by the day. Sam, on the other hand, drifted in and out of consciousness, a fever constantly over one hundred degrees.

"Are you going to retrieve more?" Cas asked, a flicker of hope shining in his eyes.

"No, you can't come with me," Dean said, immediately guessing Cas's intentions. Cas looked down, clearly disappointed.

"Whatever you think is best," he said mournfully.

"Sorry, man," Dean responded. "But I kind of need someone here to make sure Sammy keeps breathing."

"I guess," Cas moped.

"Any requests?"

"Requests?" Cas tilted his head.

"Yeah. Food-wise. You know, if you wanted some orange soda or coffee or pickled eggplant or something." Dean watched as Cas visibly recoiled.

"No coffee," he said. "However, I have not yet tried pickled aubergine or orange soda. Therefore, I do not know whether or not I like them. But I had lots and lots of coffee and it has grown quite wearisome."

"Well, I just won't make you any," Dean said, eyeing Cas strangely.

"I hope that I will soon require no sustenance." Cas sighed. "I don't like being so indisposed."

"You should have just come to us with the tablet," Dean said softly. Cas flinched.

"I do not have any requests for food at this time."

* * *

"You're telling me we have to cure a demòn?"

"Would I lie to you, Dean?"

"I don't know. It was rhetorical. You okay?" Kevin sounded sort of out of it. He was staring into space, eyes focused on a spot just beyond Dean's left shoulder.

"No. Never will be. It doesn't say anything else about the trial, so don't ask." Kevin blinked and looked down at his notes.

"What is after it then?" Dean pinched the bridge of his nose in frustration.

"A recipe for Toll House's famous chocolate chip cookies. Directions to the local Walmart. I don't know, it starts saying something about opening Hell's Gate."

"Been there, done that," Dean muttered darkly.

"You opened Hell's Gate?" Kevin asked.

"It was a long story. Our father was kind of reckless."

"Guess it runs in the family, then," Kevin dead panned.

"What?"

"Gee, I'm really famished." Kevin stood up and wandered into the kitchen area. "What's for dinner?"

"It's eight forty five in the morning, Kevin," Dean said.

"Ah."

"And we're mostly out of chow. I was going to run down to the grocery store last night, but Sam was sort of... Not keeping his food down, and then you showed up, and Cas has been eternally complaining about being bored so I have to constantly make sure he is occupied because he will reopen his wound if he messes around too much. I mean, the guy buried a God damned tablet inside his freakin' rib-cage and he just wants to get up and run around and I am really really worried about both of those guys because-"

"Dean. You are rambling. Majorly." Kevin rolled his eyes.

"Um. Sorry. Didn't sleep much."

"Can you still drive?"

"Yeah?"

"Great. Go buy food. And bring Cas."

"But-" Dean started to interject.

"Unless he is bleeding silver grace blood, I'm sure he can take a field trip." Kevin rolled his eyes again. Dean sometimes forgot that he _was_, at the end of the day, a teenager, no matter what he had gone through and who he had lost. "I can make sure Sam doesn't keel over while you two are out buying stuff."

Dean blinked.

"Dude, really," Kevin urged. "If you won't leave for your own sake, then pretend I guilt tripped you into it because I am a prophet and stuff."

"Okay," Dean said. "Thanks."

"Can you buy Cinnamon Toast Crunch?" Kevin asked abruptly.

"Um, I guess," Dean replied, an eyebrow raised.

"My mom would never let me eat it. It was all quinoa and spelt and stuff every morning," Kevin explained, seeing the look on Dean's face.

Dean bit his lip. Kevin's mother had died as a result of Dean and Sam's quest for... Whatever they had been doing at the time. Freeing Cas from Naomi's grip? Closing Hell up nice and tight? Collecting ten box tops for a collectible Count Chocula action figure? Stopping Crowley? It didn't matter anymore. It was just another death to add to the Winchester's extensive ledger.

"Sounds good," Dean said finally.

"Quinoa and spelt? It was awful. It was like the flavor equivalent of Justin Bieber's music." Kevin thought he had been talking about his former breakfast foods.

"Yikes."

"Yeah. Now go get Cas and go get my unhealthy cereal. 'Cause I'm a prophet and stuff." He nodded seriously and made a shooing motion with his hands.


End file.
